Dr. Goodman nudges my shoulder lightly. “If you could lower the gown to your waist for me and lie back, we’ll start with the breast exam,” he says calmly, repositioning the thin pillow underneath my head. As I grip the front of the gown and reluctantly shrug it off of my shoulders, my eyes land on the stethoscope draped around his neck. I shiver.

“Thank you. Okay …”

He takes my right wrist and gently positions my arm above my head as he speaks, moving easily through an exam that he’s probably done hundreds of times. Meanwhile I feel like I’m having an out of body experience. “Okay … a little pressure here ….”

My breath catches as the pads of his fingertips make gentle contact with my breast. His touch takes me back to my adolescence and the only other male doctor ever to examine my breasts – a very unpleasant and unwelcome memory. A shiver runs through me, wondering how adolescent-me would have fared if it was Dr. Goodman doing the exam. It must not escape his notice, because he encourages me to try and relax.

“Do you check your breasts regularly Molly?”

I speak past the hardening lump in my throat. “Yeah,” I respond, my head turned to face the opposite wall. I close my eyes. The reality is that this very handsome doctor is kneading every inch of my exposed breasts, and will soon ask me to open my legs for him. There’s no way I can look at him.

“Usually in the shower, a few days after my period each month.”

He nods. “I see.”

There is a protracted silence as his practiced hands move methodically over my breast. “When was your last period, Molly?”

I always have to think about this as they’re sometimes irregular. After some hesitation, I respond. “I think it started around the fifth.”

“Okay,” he nods, eyes training upward as he calculates the dates. “So you’re pretty close to due then,” he says speculatively. Evidently, I have tensed up to the point of near petrification because I can feel his touch leave my breast and move to my shoulder to try and gently loosen it up.

“Try and relax that shoulder if you can …”

A nervous chuckle eventually escapes me. “I don’t relax very easily if you hadn’t noticed …”

“Not to worry,” he responds calmly, trying a few passive movement maneuvers to loosen me up. “That’s pretty normal.” Then, after some hesitation: “Okay, let’s try this.”

He guides me to a sitting position. “You can raise the gown if you like. Roll your shoulders for me a couple times, forward and back.” I close my eyes and do what he asks, cursing my chronic inability to relax. To my surprise, when I open my eyes he is standing before me and hands me the bottle of essential oil. “Try a touch of this at your wrists and temples …” I apply it sparingly and return the bottle to him … “and go ahead and lie back.”

Without being asked, I slide my arms out of the gown again before lowering myself onto the table still fully covered. The quicker this is over, the better. He takes my wrist as before and carefully repositions my arm over my head, without moving the gown. My shoulder seems to lay flat a bit more easily.

“There we go,” he says quietly, placing one hand on my shoulder and the other on my elbow, applying gentle pressure to hold my arm in place. “Take a deep breath for me, in … and out. Excellent. Again. In … and … out.” As I exhale he slowly removes his hands from my arm. “How’re we feeling?”

Looking up at him from the table below in nothing but this skimpy gown makes me feel quite vulnerable, maybe even a little scared. I’m in an incredibly submissive position relative to him, and I still feel anxious … anxious, and impatient, and exposed.

“I’m okay,” I lie in a quiet voice.

“Alright, let’s try this again,” he says, folding the gown vertically over to the left side of my body and exposing my right breast again. “Here comes my touch. Keep those nice easy breaths coming ...” and then a little later, “a little pinch, I’m sorry. Any discharge here, ever?” he asks, carefully palpating my nipple. I want to crawl under a rock and die.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Okay, good." He is able to finish examining my right breast without difficulty, asking the requisite questions as he goes. I’ve kept my eyes closed the entire time.

Still doing okay?” he asks, looking directly into my eyes as he covers up my right breast and exposes the entire left side of my body to the chill in the room.

“Fine,” I answer.

I wonder to myself how doctors learn to get comfortable with long stretches of silence. And not just like at a dinner table - but like this, touching intimate parts of someone's body. The only reason I'm not trying to fill the awkward silence with chatter is because I'm afraid the quiver in my voice will reveal what a mess I am.

“A little pinch coming, Molly …” he warns before squeezing and gently tugging at my nipple. “No issues on this side either?” he asks, pulling the gown back over my left side.

“Nope.”

“Good. Okay. Everything here feels relatively healthy,” he says, backing into the counter and propping up against it as he continues.

“On palpation I did feel some nodular breast tissue but, given that you’re expecting your period, I don’t think there’s any cause for alarm. It’s likely due to fibrocystic breast changes.”

Somewhere far away, that term rings a bell in my mind. Though it has been quite a while since I’ve seen Dr. Simmons, I do recall this particular conversation, because I remember being a bit affronted when she said I had “lumpy breasts,” until she explained that it’s perfectly normal.

“Do your breasts ever feel lumpy around your period, and then clear up when it’s finished?”

“Actually, yes,” I respond carefully. “That term, fibra …”

He nods. “Fibrocystic …”

“Yes that. I recall discussing that with Dr. Simmons.”

“Okay then, no need for concern there,” he says, consulting something on the computer screen before continuing. “And … monthly exams have been consistent and normal? Not feeling anything out of the ordinary from month to month?”

“Nope.”

“Excellent.” He gives me the spiel about calling in right away for evaluation if there are any changes, no matter how superficial they seem.

“Okay. Can you come sit at the end of the table here?” he asks, rolling over so that we’re facing one another. “Good, come on down and let your legs hang off the end here,” he adds, patting his hand on the desired spot. “Perfect. When you’re ready, go ahead and lower the gown again for me.”

Again? I thought we were finished.

I freeze up, temporarily paralyzed.